


Of Shades and Shadows

by WhenasInSilks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Age Difference, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Difference, Frederick Chilton is an ass, Gen, Georgette Heyer - Freeform, Georgian AU, Hannibal is 36, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Pre-Slash, These Old Shades, Threats, Will is 19, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9465281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenasInSilks/pseuds/WhenasInSilks
Summary: A chance encounter between an aristocrat and a runaway on a London street starts with violence and ends with something else. 18th Century/Georgian AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Hannigram remix of _These Old Shades_ by Georgette Heyer (don't worry, you don't have to have read it). If you’re familiar with the novel, you’ll understand why this fic had to be written. I mean, older, amoral, dandified aristocrat with a bottomless scorn for all but the finest things in life, and his scruffy, young, curly-haired, ill-mannered protégé? COME. ON. Other than that this is just a bit of fun for which I have no excuses. 
> 
> If you’ve read Georgette Heyer, you’ll recognize the style. If you haven’t, allow me to say that a lot of stuff here—the general style of the writing, the almost obsessive attention to clothes, the use of period terminology—is a pastiche. Just so you don’t think I normally write like this. I’ve included a glossary at the end for some of the more obscure terms and phrases.
> 
> No beta--all mistakes are mine.

It was long past midnight, and the London streets were deserted, but for a solitary gentleman picking his way unhurriedly across the cobbles. That he _was_ a gentleman was beyond mistaking; every inch of him proclaimed his station. He wore a long cloak over a skirted coat of ivory and red brocade, with a waistcoat and smallclothes of dark gold silk. Diamonds glittered on his fingers and in the froth of lace at his throat. Despite the rather precarious heels of his buckled shoes, he walked with ease—indeed, with an almost predatory grace.

He paused beneath a guttering streetlamp, resting the tip of his ivory-handled cane on the cobbles, and raised his chin. The light caught on the planes and angles of his face, revealing high-cheek bones, heavy-lidded eyes set deep beneath prominent brows, and a wide, mobile mouth. His face had a harsh sort of beauty to it, both enhanced and belied by the almost foppish niceness of his attire.

The image he formed—the gentleman of leisure, out for a midnight stroll—might have been taken from the pages of The Gentleman’s Magazine. But there was too something vaguely … _off_ about the picture, perhaps resulting from the severity of the man’s features, or the almost unnatural stillness with which he held himself. The effect was decidedly and almost unsettlingly exotic— _un-English_.

He cocked his head to the side. Anyone watching might have seen his nostrils flare. Then, he pulled the hat low over his brow, and was just about to resume walking when there came the frantic beat of footsteps and a body hurtled headlong out of an alley, colliding with the gentleman’s side and becoming briefly entangled in his cloak.

Quick as an adder, the gentleman whipped around, bringing his cane crashing into the backs of his accoster’s knees. The boy went down hard, only a hastily out-flung arm sparing his head from the cobblestones. He made to rise again, but a swift and precise kick to the ribs had him curling onto his side. Another nudge had him on his back; the tip of the gentleman’s cane, coming to rest against the boy’s throat, kept him there, although judging by the wheezing heaviness of his breathing, he was hardly in a state to rise under his own power.

The gentleman surveyed his prisoner. The boy glared back, eyes narrowed, face smeared with street muck and twisted in pain. He was, upon closer inspection, not a boy at all, but a youth of about sixteen years of age, although he could have been as old as twenty—habitual undernourishment had kept him scrawny and stunted his growth, making him appear younger than his years.

He raised a trembling hand to knock the cane aside. The gentleman applied his weight ever so slightly and the boy went still. The warning having been delivered, the pressure relented.

The boy glared through his curls up at his assailant.

“Let me go.” His voice was unnaturally high and shaking with an almost animal fear. Nevertheless, the words were quite plainly not a plea, but a demand.

A flicker of amusement passed over the gentleman’s face, a certain narrowing of the eyes and quirk of the lips, all but imperceptible in the darkness.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a grave miscalculation.” The gentleman spoke in a clipped accent—genteel, but unmistakably foreign. His tone was mild, belying the malice that lay coiled beneath every syllable. “I am not a pigeon for your plucking.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t—” He choked as the gentleman leaned in, the tip of the cane pressing viciously against his windpipe. The gentleman watched, face impassive, as his eyes bulged and his fingers clawed uselessly at the paving stones. Then, just as his fingers began to grow slack, he withdrew the cane and stepped back a pace.

The boy rolled over onto his side, gasping and retching.

“You’re not a very good thief,” the gentleman observed. “I find incompetence in all forms to be quite despicable.”

With visible effort, the boy pushed himself up onto one elbow, the other hand still wrapped protectively around his bruised throat. His blue eyes were fixed on the gentleman’s face—even narrowed and watering with pain, his gaze was piercing.

“You … hate rudeness,” he rasped. The act of speech clearly cost him greatly, but he continued. “Vulgarity—ugliness of all kinds.”

The gentleman had been twirling his cane idly between his fingers but at that he paused.

“The one as is after me, he’s a bully and a coward and a—a sycophant. You’ll despise him even more’n me.”

“Quite possibly I shall,” the gentleman returned. His gaze had grown a little more intent, eyes widening ever so slightly at the word ‘sycophant.’ The boy’s origins were plainly low, his accent rough and unlovely, its broad vowels and guttural consonants carrying the taint of the Bristol shipyards. Where had a sailor’s brat learned a word like that? “I fail to see what bearing it has on your case, however.”

The boy ignored this, only continued to stare, his gaze growing—if possible—even more intent. Whatever he saw there must have frightened him, because he flinched back suddenly, entire body tensing.

“You don’t just want to hurt me. You want—” He swallowed, then continued audibly. “You want to kill me. You’ve done it before. More’n once—maybe a lot more. You _like_ it.”

The gentleman held himself still, face a perfect and unreadable mask.

Someone, somewhere in the distance, was calling out, though they were too far away to be intelligible.

At the sound, the boy paled, seeming, strangely, even more frightened than he had when he realized he lay helpless at the feet of his would-be murderer. With a sudden burst of energy, he surged upward, grasping at the hem of the gentleman’s coat.

“I don’t care!” he choked out. “I’d rather die, do you hear? Rather die than let him take me back—” His voice cracked and he crumpled back onto the ground, clutching at his injured throat.

The gentleman tipped his head to one side.

“It seems to me,” he observed, “that the aptest punishment would be to return you to this man.”

The boy’s mouth trembled, but he shook his head. “You want to do it yourself. No pleasure otherwise. My pain from your hands.”

The shouting was louder now—closer. “ _William_!”

The boy bit down on his lip, hard. His eyes had all the desperate and pitiful wildness of a wounded animal in a trap.

The gentleman, on the other hand, gave no sign that he’d heard the disturbance. “I might choose to forgo that particular pleasure. After all, there’s a certain aesthetic value to poetic justice. Don’t you agree?” His tone was politely inquiring, as though he were discussing philosophy at a Paris salon.

Footsteps were plainly audible now, the slapping of leather against stone.

The boy’s tongue darted out, licking the blood from his lip. “He’ll do it crude. Not like you. No beauty in’t.”

For the first time that night, surprise was visible on the gentleman’s face. His lips parted. Then he leaned forward, eyes hooding. “Tell me, William.” His voice was low and caressing. “What have you done to deserve _beauty_?”

William paled. His hands balled into fists but he said nothing.

A great hulking brute of a man came charging out of the alleyway from which William had first appeared. He skidded to a stop, calling out. “Found ’im, boss! Some swell’s got ’im laid cold.”

The gentleman stiffened infinitesimally, the corners of his mouth turning down in evident distaste.

The boy’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time in a while, his gaze slid away from the gentleman, coming to rest somewhere on the ground before him. “Told you,” he said, but there was no triumph in his voice, no satisfaction, only weariness. It was the voice of someone often right and just as often disregarded, as though the boy were some sort of strange, grubby, latter-day Cassandra.

The gentleman inclined his head. “So you did,” he acknowledged.

William looked up sharply.

More footsteps approaching, lighter this time. Another man came to a rest besides the first one, panting with exertion.

“Ah… Sir!” he called out. His voice was mannered, and he affected a faint drawl—plainly, this was a man of at least some education, and with pretensions to far more. “I must thank you for your assistance.”

The gentleman ignored him.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

William stared at him for a moment, then, face setting with determination, he began to push himself upright on trembling arms.

“I do hope this wayward boy has not been causing you…” The voice trailed off, as, without turning around, the gentleman raised an imperious hand to silence him.

The gentleman stared down at William, who was still struggling to rise. The boy’s whole body was shaking now, eyes glassy with pain, breath coming in short gasps. The gentleman lifted his cane and prodded the boy in the chest. It was little more than a nudge, but it sent him sprawling.

“Evidently not.”

The newcomer spoke again, voice grown sharper and higher pitched with indignation. “Sir, while I appreciate your assistance, I really must—”

With a barely perceptible roll of the eyes, the gentleman raised his voice, cutting smoothly across the other man’s indignation. “I’m afraid, sir, that you are interrupting. The young man and I have not finished our conversation.”

Taking advantage of the brief, astounded silence that followed, the gentleman addressed the boy in low but businesslike tones. “I have little patience for bravado, insubordination, or anything that _wastes my time_. You will lie here and hold your tongue until I bid you speak, is that clear?”

Silently, the boy nodded.

“Sirrah.” The second man had apparently pulled himself together again. “The boy belongs to me. As his master, I’m afraid I must insist that you step away, or I will be forced to—”

The gentleman turned around. Two leisurely steps forward brought him into the full light of the streetlamp. The light picked out the metallic threads in of his waistcoat and set the rings upon his fingers to sparkling.

The man fell silent, goggling. Clearly, whatever he’d expected of the gentleman who’d intercepted his quarry, it hadn’t been such magnificence.

The gentleman permitted a smile to grace his rather severe features as he shook out the falls of lace at his cuffs. He was silent a moment, then, after it became clear that the other man had lost his train of thought: “How may I be of assistance?”

The man flushed. “I… I beg your pardon, sir, I hadn’t realized—”

“My lord.”

“I—what?”

“The correct form of address is ‘my lord.’”

The man looked even more flustered. He withdrew a handkerchief and mopped at his sweating brow. “Yes, of course, my lord, apologies, my lord.”

“Quite understandable, Mr…?”

“Chilton. Doctor Frederick Chilton.” He thrust the handkerchief back into his waistcoat and held out the same hand to shake.

His lordship regarded him in polite incomprehension.

Chilton flushed an even deeper shade of red and sank into a clumsy bow, wiping his hand surreptitiously on his breeches.

His lordship inclined his head courteously in return. “My apologies, doctor. I fear I must admit to some small confusion, however. You say that you are this boy’s master. I was under the impression that your country had outlawed slavery?”

“I, er… that is to say, yes, indeed we have. The boy is not my slave, but my apprentice.” Chilton adopted a congenial tone, shaking his head in sad disapproval. “And a very ungrateful one at that, lazy and disobliging. I took him from the poorhouse, purely out of the goodness of my heart—”

“Liar,” William muttered.

The gentleman turned his head ever so slightly. “I hope the fall has not done you a lasting injury, William, that your memory should suffer so. I have little interest in idiots.”

Silence from behind him. His lordship smiled again, very slightly.

“Nevertheless,” he said, in an apologetic tone, “I fear you are not being entirely frank with me, doctor.”

The doctor ground his teeth, and then adopted an ingratiating smile. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but you mustn’t be taken in by his nonsense. He’s liar, and a deficient—an idiot in very deed! If it weren’t for me, he’d be locked up in Bedlam, belike, if not swinging from a gallows noose!”

“How alarming. Your trade must be quite an unusual one if you are willing to take to prentice a liar and an idiot. May I be so bold as to inquire what it is?”

Chilton opened his mouth, fishlike, then closed it again.

“It seems this loss of memory is catching. William, I trust you have recovered sufficiently?”

Silence.

Slowly, the gentleman turned to look behind him.

The boy’s lips were pressed tightly shut, eyes glittering with some unidentifiable emotion.

“I grow impatient,” his lordship said, softly.

William’s mouth trembled, and he wiped his hand savagely across it. Then he said, biting out every word, “He runs a freak show.”

Chilton burst out: “There you have it, my lord, from his own lips! The boy’s a freak! An aberration! It is in his best interests, and those of the citizens of London, that he be returned to my guardianship.”

“What kind of freak?”

Chilton blinked. Plainly he had not been expecting this question. He glanced nervously from side to side. “I’m sure your lordship has no interest in such low things,” he began.

“Upon the contrary, I have the liveliest of interests.” He put his head to one side consideringly. “I can’t imagine a freak would be much value to you as an apprentice, but I consider it best to err on the side of generosity, do not you? Shall we say £100?”

From behind him can a sudden, startled noise, quickly muffled.

“I… beg your pardon, my lord?”

“I am offering to purchase this young man’s apprenticeship. Will £100 be sufficient?”

“I… I couldn’t possibly…”

“Two hundred, then.”

It was a staggering sum of money. Chilton’s face contorted, a symphony of greed and indecision. Then, slowly he shook his head. “I’m afraid,” he said, “burden as he is, the affection I bear the lad is such…”

His lordship nodded slowly. “I see. Pity. Well, in that case—”

He stopped. Something was tugging sharply at the back of his coat. Glancing over the shoulder, he saw William clutching the hem of his coat in a white-knuckled hand.

“Please,” he whispered.

“William, you’re crushing the embroidery.”

The boy shook his head, the material crumpling beneath his fingers as his grip tightened.

“William.” This time, the voice held a note of warning.

The boy held his gaze for a moment longer, then slowly opened his hand.

His lordship shook out his coat and turned back to Chilton.

“I wonder…” he said. He turned slightly to the side, fingers working at his throat. Then he turned back to Chilton. “Will this be payment enough?”

He held out a hand. On the center of his palm lay a diamond cravat pin.

Chilton’s eyes bulged, and his fingers twitched. His voice was almost reverent. “Is that… _real_?” He glanced quickly up at his lordship’s face, and whatever he saw there had him quickly backtracking. “That is to say— I meant no— Of course it is real, forgive me, my lord, I was merely overcome.”

“Quite. Have we a bargain?”

A split second’s hesitation. Then: “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe we do. Thank you, my lord.”

He reached out, but his lordship lifted his free hand to forestall him. “A moment.” He reached into his pocket and withdraw a small paper card from a holder. “You will call tomorrow at my solicitor’s in High Holborn to formally transfer the apprenticeship. While you are there, you will also sign an agreement entirely renouncing all claim or connection with the boy. You will not seek to contact with him, or acknowledge him should you pass in the street. If others ask you of him, you will plead ignorance. Any records you have of him will be expunged. It will, in short, be as if you had never encountered him. Are these terms agreeable to you?”

From the look on Chilton’s face, it was plain that these terms were not in the least agreeable. Nevertheless, he nodded, jerkily.

“Splendid.” His lordship held forth both card and pin to Chilton, who snatched at them as though afraid the offer would be withdrawn.

“Thank you, my lord. A pleasure doing business with you,” he said, with a jerky bow.

“The pleasure was entirely mine. I give you good evening, doctor.”

Chilton only nodded, casting one last resentful glance at the pair of them. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared back the way he’d come, his henchman following in his wake.

“A man of little breeding, I fear, and less culture,” his lordship remarked, turning to his companion. “You were entirely right. I did not like him in the least.”

“I’m usually right,” the boy muttered ungraciously.

“I imagine you are.”

“How will you do it?” William asked abruptly.

His lordship gave a slight, enigmatic smile and then, to his companion’s evident surprise, crouched down on the street beside him.

“Where do you hurt?”

William regarded him with knit brows. It was a moment before he spoke.

“Throat’s a right bugger,” he said, pointedly.

His lordship waited.

The boy relented. “My leg. The left ’un. I think summat’s broken.”

“May I?”

William gave him another surprised and wary glance, but he nodded his acquiescence.

His lordship helped the boy turn onto his back and ran his hands over his body in a brisk but thorough examination.

“You’ve—ah!—studied medicine,” the boy said, in between gasps and winces.

“I have something of a passion for anatomy,” his lordship acknowledged. He sat back. “Broken ankle. And bruised ribs, but that’s not a recent injury.”

“No.”

“Since you are still unable to walk, I shall have to summon a hackney, though it goes much against the grain with me.”

“Shouldn’t’ve busted my legs up, should you?”

The gentleman gave a microscopic sigh. “We shall have to work on that diction of yours.”

The boy blinked, slowly. “Aren’t you going to kill me then?”

“Not just at present. Not unless you are so indiscreet as to ask questions like that in front of the hackney driver, in which case one of you will certainly have to die.”

“Better him than me.”

The corners of his lordship’s mouth turned up. “Debatable. I’d instruct you to wait here, but…”

“But you’ve already seen to it I will.”

“Perspicacious of me,” his lordship agreed. “I shall be back shortly.”

He was back in ten minutes, followed by an ill-dressed man of middle years—the hackney driver. Between the two of them, they contrived to transfer the boy to the coach with a minimum of fuss.

“Drive slowly,” his lordship instructed, before following his protégé into the carriage.

The boy sat with his injured leg stretched out on the seat beside him, his lordship’s folded cloak elevating his ankle. His lordship sat across for him, regarding him through hooded eyes. After a moment, he spoke.

“You have cost me a small fortune, William. I do hope you won’t give me cause to regret it.”

The boy shook his head, adding rebelliously, “I reckon you’ve got enough of them sparklers anyway.”

“It was an heirloom.”

“Liar.”

“Manners,” his lordship chided. “It occurs to me that we’ve yet to be properly introduced. I am Hannibal Saint-Robert, Comte de Lecteur.”

“Hannibal San-Robear,” the boy repeated, his brogue making a mangle of the words. “You say it the French way. But your accent isn’t French.”

“Astute of you.”

The boy nodded, without ego—a simple acknowledgement of fact. “You already know my name,” he added, the smallest hint of resentment creeping into his voice. Clearly, he was used to being the one with special knowledge.

“I know part of it. Or have you just the one?”

The boy thought about it for a moment. “Graham,” he said, in the tones of one making a great concession. “And it’s Will, not William.”

“Will Graham,” the count repeated. “And how old are you, Will?”

“Nineteen.” He said it with a hint of defiance. “How old are _you_?”

“I am thirty-six. Tell me, are you being impolite on purpose?”

The boy hesitated. “A bit.”

“Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.”

“I know.”

“And you know my response to ugliness.”

“Yes.”

“Then may I ask why you are attempting to provoke me?”

“I…” Will sounded uncertain. “I wanted to see what you would do.”

“Why?” There was genuine curiosity in the question.

“I …” Will scrubbed a hand over his face, then paused, peeping back at his rescuer—captor? benefactor?—through splayed fingers. “I _saw_ you before. At first. I saw what you are, clearly as I’ve seen anything. But since then it’s been getting… harder. Like you’re written in a language I’ve been forgetting how to read. I can’t make you out at all.”

“Is that alarming to you?”

“Yes.”

The count nodded. “Try to get some rest. You’ve had an eventful evening.”

Will looked as if he wanted to make a smart remark, but in the end, he only nodded, settling back against the wall of the carriage. His eyes fluttered to a close.

It was several minutes before his lordship spoke again.

“And Will?”

Will blinked, attempting to focus on the source of the voice, but he was fighting a losing battle. His eyelids were heavy as lead.

Not that it mattered. In the dark of the carriage, he could scarcely have made out the other man’s face. His voice, on the other hand—that he heard clearly, even through the fog of weariness. It was pitched low, and rich with promise.

“Don’t worry. You will.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is, like, half of the first chapter of the novel. There’s a whole book’s worth of material here to be adapted: Hannibal taking Will under his wing, training him up as a gentleman (and a killer) in preparation for some elaborate revenge scheme against an old enemy but accidentally falling _in luuurrrve_ in the process. Cannibalism, visits to Versailles, frottage, and powdered wigs. Maybe someday I’ll write it all, but for now, I think it works as a one-shot. 
> 
> The one thing I will say though is that if anyone wants to draw art of Hannibal as an 18th century dandy, I will adapt the rest of the story into a multi-chapter fic. I realize it’s a long shot, because the odds of anyone actually caring enough to make art seem so low, but I am SO THIRSTY for 18th century dandy Hannibal (slash Mads Mikkelsen in a powdered wig and frock coat, how could anyone not want this) that I’m putting the offer out there just in case. 
> 
> Glossary  
> smallclothes: knee-length breeches  
> a pigeon for plucking: someone to be fooled, robbed, or fleeced out of their money  
> swell: gentleman  
> Bedlam: Royal Bethlem Hospital, famous London psychiatric hospital  
> belike: probably  
> take to prentice: take as an apprentice  
> hackney: a coach-for-hire, the 18th century equivalent to a taxi
> 
> EDIT: Guys, it's official, we have fan art from the incredible Of_Stories_Told (check it out [here](http://ofstoriestobetold.deviantart.com/art/Lord-Hannibal-660051809?ga_submit_new=10%3A1485582457&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1&ga_recent=1))--a gorgeous rendition of dandy Hanners and his curly-haired protege (clearly set in the future of this story, because look how happy and well-fed Will looks)--and so the story continues! I'm working on ironing out the general plot and drafting the beginning of the next chapter. I'm a fairly slow writer, as a warning, but this story is now officially a thing! Yaaaayyy!!
> 
> AND ALSO from the brilliantly talented fandomsnerd, oh my stars and garters will you please LOOK at [this](http://fandomsnerd.tumblr.com/post/156482580479/18th-century-dandy-hannibal-for-whenas-in-silks)??? It's like they crawled inside my head and then illustrated it SO FREAKING BEAUTIFULLY I'm absolutely overcome right now I can't even--just check it out. That is it. THAT IS IT RIGHT THERE. JFCSKDFLEJWDSFLKJ
> 
> And Whoops Again did [this stunning photo edit](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/92300936). 
> 
> You guys. YOU GUYS. 
> 
> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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